Rebound
by Writing Cat And Dog
Summary: John is fading after the fall. He's drinking too much, thinking too much, and hurting too much. Then he meets a man on the streets and a strange relationship forms. But will he find out who Sebastian Moran truly is?
1. Chapter 1

In the quasi-darkness of the London streets with strange lights and shadows cast by the electric lamps, John's inebriated brain somehow caught sight of a man sitting against the wall of a sketchy pub. The man was holding a brown paper sack, presumably with some kind of alcohol bottled up inside, and humming a classical piece that John couldn't quite place. Thanks to Lestrade banning him from just about every pub in London, John was desperate for something, anything, that could ease his pain. So, although he was definitely not in the mood to talk to people, he limped over to the man, leaning heavily on his cane.

"How much?" He asked bluntly, rustling through his back pocket for his wallet. He knew he didn't have much, ever since he started drinking he'd lost his job at the clinic and hadn't gotten a new one yet, but it was worth a couple pounds just to get hammered.

The man glanced up at him, peering at his face through blue-grey eyes, one marred by a scar running down his face, "I'm not a prostitute. Move along."

John shook his head, "Not for you. For a drink of whatever's in that bag."

Squinting his eyes suspiciously, the man lifted the bottle inside the bag to take a swig, "Can't you just go inside?"

John shook his head, "Nah, got banned."

The man chuckled, "Must have done something big to get banned from this place. It's as seedy as they come."

John ignored the jibe and turned the questions on the man, "So what are you doing outside? Got kicked out?"

The man shrugged, "Got in a fight. Bastard though he could fuck with me, I showed him who's dick was bigger. Figuratively, of course."

John nodded, "So, about that drink..."

Sighing, the man patted the dirty concrete sidewalk beside him, "Sit down. You don't need to pay. I can see you need this drink just about as much as I do."

John sat down next to him and snatched the bag from his loose grip, taking a long drink, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

They sat there, sharing the bottle till it was empty. John couldn't identify what had been in it, but it was strong, though not strong enough to wash away his heartache. The clock above the pub chimed eleven o'clock and the man turned to him, staring oddly like he'd seen him before.

"What?" John snapped, he'd had enough of people looking at him.

"Nothing," The man said quickly, too quickly, "Just feel like I've seen you before. Maybe on the news?"

John gave a jerky nod, "Sure. Been on there before."

The man was silent, then he jumped up, tossing the empty sack into the bin situated next to them, "Wanna get something to eat?"

John shrugged, "I'm a bit peckish, yeah."

The man outstretched his hand and John took it, letting himself be pulled up by the man's strong arms. He grabbed his cane from where he had laid it on the ground and they began to walk, the man going slow so John could keep up. Beneath the streetlamps, John could make out the man's features better. He had short hair, practically buzzed, and scars running down his face and arms. One eye was glazed over white and he turned it away when he saw John staring.

"What happened?" John asked. He knew it was rude, but he was too drunk to care.

The man, John dubbed him Scarface, hissed between his teeth, "War. Shrapnel. Need I say anymore?"

"You were in the war? Which regiment?"

"19th." The man answered, "I was a sniper. You?"

John frowned, "How'd you-"

""You have a psychosomatic limp, of course you were in the army."

John was used to being analysed, he'd had to learn to get used to it living with-. Well, it bothered him that this man had sized him up so quickly.

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Army medic." He said, his words clipped and short.

"I have a feeling neither one of us wants to talk about the war." Scarface chuckled, "Let's just leave it at that."

John nodded and stroked his budding mustache awkwardly. He didn't really know what to say, he'd rather just stay in silence, but the current quietness was too tense for his liking.

"Where are we going?" He asked, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to take a breather. Walking with an aching leg not only hurt, it was tiring as well.

"Fish 'n chips." Scarface declared, "Best food in the British Isles."

John smirked, "You think so?"

"I know so. Come on, it's not too much further."

About three blocks later, they reached a hole-in-the-wall shop that served fish 'n chips and only fish 'n chips. They entered and sat in a hard, garishly painted red and brown booth The whole place stunk of fish, but John's stomach was growling already and food sounded amazing. A waitress, a pretty little thing dressed in a short skirt and a red crop top, came by and they ordered coffee in an attempt to try and sober up enough to not get kicked out. As the waitress walked away, John couldn't help but stare at her swaying hips. Just the thought of sex hurt, though. He hadn't, not since... Sherlock.

Scarface noticed the direction of his gaze and smiled, but remained quiet until the waitress came back with their coffee.

"Thanks." They both muttered, stirring their mugs with the plastic spoons provided. They sat and drank in silence until John asked, "So, what's got you drinking tonight?"

Scarface almost spit out his coffee, "None of your business, that's what."

John shrugged, "That's fine. Just a question."

The man waited a beat, then said softly, "Well, if you must know, I lost someone a couple weeks ago. Someone very important to me."

John gazed into his good eye, feeling a strange connection forming, "Really? Me too. Someone very important."

Scarface nodded and chuckled cynically, "What a coincidence. It's a shitty life, isn't it?"

John laughed, a horrible, grating sound, "Yeah, a shitty life. Can't even go back home, too quiet."

A strange look came into Scarface's good eye, "Doesn't have to be."

John leaned forward, his face inches from the man's, "Are you trying to get me to take you home?"

Scarface smirked, a luring look on his face, "Maybe. Would you be adverse to that?"

John could feel the alcohol flowing through his veins, throwing all scruples out the window and begging him to say no, he would not be adverse to that at all. With all his inhibitions about sex gone, he leaned closer and placed a sloppy kiss on the battle-scarred sniper's lips.

They entered 221 B Baker Street without touching each other, but as soon as John locked the door behind them, they were kissing and groping and tearing at each other's clothes.

John reached up and grabbed the nape of Scarface's neck, pulling the taller man down for a kiss filled with dominance and the need for control. Everything in the doctor's world had been out of whack and it was time he got some semblance of power back. However, the man wasn't having it. He pushed John back against the bullet riddled wall and rucked up his flannel shirt, running his hands along pale skin and finding the bullet hole scar on John's left shoulder.

"So you were shot, just in your shoulder." Scarface commented, inching his thigh closer to John's crotch. John nodded and groaned as Scarface made contact. Then, realizing that he was currently on the losing end, he pushed Scarface backwards towards the bedroom. The man went willingly, shedding his clothes along the way. When John stepped through the low doorway, Scarface was laying totally naked on the unmade bed. His pale, scar-ridden skin gleamed in the moonlight flooding through the window above the four-poster bed and his cock already halfway erect.

John couldn't help but grin, all his memories of Sherlock doing that exact same thing flooding away, replaced with this strange, handsome man. He approached the bed, slowly taking off his red and green checkered flannel to reveal his muscular stomach and pecs.

Scarface licked his lips and gestured for John to step closer. With deft hands, the man undid his fly and slid his trousers down to his ankles. John stepped out of them, now as naked as the day he was born.

"You're not wearing any pants." Scarface commented, a lusty look on his face and his one good eye running up and down John's body.

John smirked and straddled him, his still flaccid cock laying long and lean on Scarface's stomach. The man shifted and said impatiently, "Well, get on with it."

John reached into the side table for the lube he had always kept there just in case. He ripped open the package with his teeth and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. He scooted back off of Scarface and lifted his thighs up, hooking them over his shoulders to support them. He circled Scarface's entrance with two slicked fingers before pushing one in, crooking the digit and searching for that sweet spot that he knew would make the man feel so good. After a bit of maneuvering, he found it. Scarface arched his back and whined between clenched teeth. John grinned and pressed down, enjoying the strangled noise the man made.

He added another finger, circling around and around until he was sure Scarface was prepped enough. Then he slicked up his now fully hard dick and positioned it against his hole. He teased the tip in, causing Scarface to groan and mumble something.

"What was that?" The doctor said.

"Please."

John smiled, "Of course." and thrust in, bottoming out in one push.

Scarface arched his back even higher and shouted something unintelligible. John waited a bit before he began moving, giving the man time to adjust. He may have been desperate, but he prided himself on being a good partner. However, it wasn't long until the man began to beg for him to go harder, faster, deeper. John complied, slamming into him until they both reached their climax.

They stayed in that position for a few minutes, regaining their breath, before collapsing on one another. John laid his head on Scarface's smooth chest and said sleepily, "What's your name? I forgot to ask."

The man smiled and replied, "Sebastian. Sebastian Moran."


	2. Chapter 2

"I had sex last night."

John's therapist, Miss Hartman, adjusted her tight chiffon and cocked an eyebrow, "Really? May I ask what prompted this?"

John shrugged, picking at a loose fingernail, "I don't know really. I was drunk and he was there. End of story."

Miss Hartman frowned and scribbled a note onto her yellow legal pad, "You were drunk?"

John winced internally, he had not meant to tell her that, she worried enough about him already, "Yes. We drank together, not that much though."

His therapist wrote 'still lying about alcoholism' down on her pad. John had become accustomed to reading her writing upside down and he found that it made him trust her less.

"So." He said, trying to change the subject, "How was your day?"

Miss Hartman sighed, seeing through his ruse, "John, I think we need to talk about this more. What made you change your mind? You told me you were never having a relationship again."

John could feel ire rising in his gut, not something he wanted to happen, "It wasn't a relationship, it was just sex. It's not important."

The therapist leveled her eyes at him, "John, you went through something terrible. Using sex and alcohol to drown it out is harming you more than it is helping you. I need you to see that."

John glanced at the floor, silent. He didn't want to discuss this, he didn't even know why he'd brought it up in the first place, but he felt a need to tell someone. A need to be heard. Maybe this was a cry for help.

"H- She wasn't important to me, I'm not going to do it again, and that's it." He said bluntly, sighing with relief as the clock chimed one. It was time for him to leave. He said his goodbyes and went out the door gratefully.

John stopped by the local Tesco's for groceries, picking out the essentials and paying for them with his worn credit card. He had to carry the plastic bags full of milk and bread the five blocks back to his apartment. When he got there, Sebastian was sitting outside the door of Mrs. Hudson's row of flats, a cigarette dangling from his full lips and a melancholy expression on his face. John set his groceries down on the doorstep and sat next to the scarred man.

"What are you doing here, Sebastian?"

Sebastian shrugged and took the cigarette between his fingers, blowing out a column of smoke, "Dunno. Just kind of went walking and ended up here."

John folded his hands in his lap, "We're not doing that again, just so you know. It was a bad idea in the first place. No attachments."

Sebastian nodded, stubbing out the cigarette on the concrete step and tossing the remaining part into the bushes, "Alright."

He stood, his long coat swaying as he did, and began walking away. John stared after him, watching the billowing coat and remembering a similar coat.

"Wait. Do you want a drink?"

Sebastian stopped dead in his tracks and John could see his head tilt in confusion. The elongated silence drew into awkwardness until John added, "Unless you don't want to, of course."

Sebastian turned and strode back to where John stood tapping his foot anxiously. He hadn't felt so insecure since his first date with Sherlock.

"Are you sure?" Sebastian asked, his eyes searching John's for any sign of hesitation, "What happened to 'no attachments'?"

John crossed his arms, "I don't know. Maybe an attachment is what I need."

Mrs. Hudson prepared them two cups of black tea dosed with brandy. John's eyes didn't even water as he downed the cup in one gulp, he was too used to the sting and burn of liquor traveling down his throat. He knew Mrs. Hudson would not be the one to refill his glass, she had already been in touch with his therapist about his drinking as well as Lestrade. They had been the ones that had jointly paid off every bar in London to not serve him.

John knew that he had a problem, but it would take a whole hell of a lot to convince him to admit it to anyone else. His drinking hadn't even been this bad directly after he got back from the war. Sherlock had broken him in ways he had never been broken in before.

Sebastian took small sips, savoring the bitter taste. His eyes wandered over John's figure, reminiscing the events and sights of the night before. Pale skin glimmering in the moonlight, silver hair underneath his fingertips, head tilted back in pleasure, blue eyes flashing. All of this ran through his mind's eye, causing him to grin slightly.

"What's so funny?" John asked, if a little gruffly.

Sebastian shook his head, "Nothing. Just…thinking."

"About…?" John prompted, refilling his cup from the teapot and walking over to the kitchen counter for the brandy. He poured a generous amount inside the teacup and went back to his chair, placing the small China cup on the carven side table.

Sebastian shrugged, "About last night." His eyes avoided John's, showing his insecurity was as high as John's.

John nodded, picking his cup off of the saucer, "Was it good?"

"Yes." Sebastian replied quickly, "I mean…not like it was with, well… but…" He stopped speaking and buried his face into his cup. John could tell that blushing didn't come naturally to the sniper, but his cheeks were dusted a light pink right then.

John could feel awkwardness descending once more, so he tapped his foot and said, "So… What happens now?"

Sebastian shrugged again, a gesture he seemed to be fond of, "I don't know. Do we part ways? Do you want to?"

John had to think about it. He wasn't over Sherlock, not by a long shot, but maybe this could help him move on.

Finally the doctor made his decision, "If we're going to do this, I want to do it properly. Let's go on a date."


	3. Chapter 3

Thin, nimble fingers caressed the simple silver band on Sherlock's left hand, fingering every warp and divot in the silverwork.

"Not very fancy," a smooth, taunting voice spoke, his words echoing around the small prison room like stones in a canyon, "Tiger's was better, but that doesn't matter anymore."

Moriarty stood, brushing his crisp Italian suit free of dust and grime, gesturing to the guard holding a handgun to Sherlock's head. The guard holstered his weapon and shoved Sherlock forward, the former detective's knees scraping against the rough concrete floor. Moriarty frowned and tutted, "Now, now, Jean. Be gentle with our guest. He's going to be with us for a long time, after all."

The criminal mastermind ran a hand through Sherlock's long, tangled curls, gripping them tightly and pulling his head closer.

"Just remember, Sherlock Holmes. You may have dismantled my empire, but I. Still. Won."

It was Friday, the day Sebastian and John had decided on for their date, and John couldn't figure out what to wear. He fluctuated between not caring at all and wondering if maybe he should care. If he really wanted to do this, to get past Sherlock, shouldn't he put a little effort into it?

He sighed and scanned the meager contents of his wardrobe for the tenth time. His hand moved towards a suit, but then retracted. Just as he laid out a beige jumper and some jeans, there was a knock on the door.

"It's open!" He shouted out and Mrs. Hudson entered, bearing a silver tray with tea stacked on top of it.

"Oh, dear! I'm sorry to interrupt, John. Might I ask where you are going?" She inquired, placing a hand on her heart.

"On a date…" John said absently, not thinking about the impact his words might have on the landlady.

Mrs. Hudson's face broke out into a huge smile, "Oh, John! You're not serious?"

John turned to her, his hands on his hips, "Yes, I'm quite serious. Now, if you don't mind, I have to change."

Mrs. Hudson's grin went wider and she peered into his half-full closet, pulling out a different pair of jeans, "Here, wear these. THey make you arse look better."

John sputtered in shock, "Mrs. Hudson!" and she shrugged before leaving the flat so he could get dressed.

After pulling the wool jumper over his head, John exited the line of flats out onto the street. He hailed a cab and gave the driver directions to the only pub in London that would still serve him. He spent the ride staring out the fingerprint-stained window pondering whether or not he was doing the right thing. Was this turning his back on Sherlock? Out of worry and habit, he fingered the silver ring hung on a long chain around his neck, letting the pads of his fingers polish the surface. It was his engagement ring, the one Sherlock had given him after they caught their hundredth killer.

Before he knew it, although it had in reality taken an hour, the cab arrived at the pub. He pressed a fifty into the driver's hand and shut the car door.

Sebastian didn't seem to be there yet, so John sat on the front stoop waiting for him. It wasn't long before he caught sight of Seb's long legs clad in black dress trousers. His eyes traveled up and widened as he saw the full suit Sebastian was decked out in. John stood to meet him, a smile on his face. When Sebastian was about two feet away, the sniper began to blush.

"I'm overdressed, aren't I?"

John laughed, "No, no. Not at all. Well, maybe a little."

Sebastian ducked his head in embarrassment, "J- My boyfriend that I lost. He was very particular about what I wore."

John grimaced, "Sounds a bit possessive."

Sebastian chuckled, "Oh he was."

They entered the pub and Sebastian ordered them both a shot of whiskey to get started. John downed it in one gulp.

"I'm guessing we're not going to go slow, are we?" Sebastian asked, taking a sip of his glass.

John slid his glass back for the bartender to refill and answered, "Not at all."

By one o'clock in the morning, they were so pissed that the bartender cut them off. John protested loudly and moved towards the man aggressively, but Sebastian pulled him back.

"It's not worth it. Let's just go home," he whispered into John's ear, pulling him close to his chest.

John nodded drunkenly and stumbled out after the blond man. Sebastian was marginally more sober, so he was the one to hail a cab and tell the driver where to go.

"Where we goin'?" John slurred, throwing his arms around Sebastian's waist.

"To my flat," the sniper replied, "we can hang out there for a bit 'till you sober up a bit."

John nodded and leaned his head against Sebastian. He began kissing the other man's neck, his rough hands traveling lower and lower. Sebastian batted them away, "Not now. Wait until we get home."

John nearly fell asleep as on the ride to Sebastian's flat, barely managing to maneuver his way out of the cab. Sebastian practically had to carry the shorter man inside he was so drunk.

Sebastian plopped John down on his unmade bed, not bothering to remove his clothes. John immediately sat up and began kissing Sebastian frantically. However, Seb pushed him back down.

"Not tonight. Not while you're so drunk you might regret it later." He explained.

John shook his head, "Won't regret it, please… Seb…"

Sebastian placed his hands on John's shoulders and faced him sternly, "No. We can sleep together, but no sex. Alright?"

Apparently he got through to the former army doctor, for John nodded solemnly, "Alright."

Sebastian took of his suit and climbed under the covers next to John, wrapping his muscular arms around the doctor, "Goodnight."

"Night."


End file.
